Yesterday
by Reminscees
Summary: To nations, things that happened even seventy years ago seem like yesterday. Alfred doubts he'll ever forget D-Day. / Inspired by the 'Saving Private Ryan' scene. /


_It's a cloudy day, Alfred thinks, and Normandy is cold as balls, even though it's summer. It's one of those days where the sky is grey, all grey, nothing but grey, and nothing but clouds, no wind or anything. It's not even raining, it's just a little dark and bleak. The ocean rushes in his ears, creating a steady rhythm. It reminds him of home, from sea to shining sea, in a comforting yet hurtful way. He swallows thickly as he stares ahead, adjusting the hold on his rifle, tilting his head to make his heavy metal helmet not dig into his neck, but it doesn't matter, so eventually he just gives up and decides that the army grade uniforms really sucked. They're itchier than the fancy fabric Arthur forced him to wear when he was a colony._

_Arthur._

_God._

_(Alfred ignores any doubts he has about Arthur's strength or succeeding in the plan- just for morale's sake.)_

_The boat crashes forward and the waves hit it in such a way that the salt water sprays onto soldier's bodies, but no one flinches. No one speaks, either, and the only sound in Alfred's ears is the loud brush of the metal, a humming noise, clashing against the steady ocean. It was almost poetic. In any other circumstance, he would have laughed out loud at the irony of the situation._

_The man next to him vomits. _

_No one moves._

_No one says anything._

_Alfred leans towards him and rubs his back a little too quickly, too harshly. He's nervous. His hands are shaking. He licks his lips and looks forward, slowly drawing his hand away from the man's back as he stands up._

_He couldn't be any older than 20._

_Alfred stares forward, his eyebrows furrowed together in concentration. Someone shouts something from the boat next to him, and he turns his head to see him holding three fingers in the air._

_30 seconds._

"_Alright," Alfred begins, "Keep those hands on those weapons and those actions clear. I'll see you on the beach." He reassures himself with those words, too._

_He'll survive._

_Fuck, he's a nation, 'course he will!_

_He doesn't shrug off the doubts that the others will._

_Alfred swallows thickly and faces forward again, water droplets dripping down from his helmet, which bobs on his head with the steady rocking of the boat._

_The first bombs fall and the noise they create causes him to flinch, and he perches up against the side of the boat. He grits his teeth tightly together, grounding them, and shuts his eyes, as if this were all a dream and he would wake up any second now._

_He digs around in his pockets- his damn hands won't stop shaking, fuck- and stares down at the handkerchief. It's one of those cliché war propaganda ones, bad quality and all, and boldly declares in bright red on white- more like greyish yellow, its stained with sweat and god knows what- 'There'll always be an England and a USA!'. _

_It's Arthur's._

_In a dramatic moment before he'd left to some operation way back in '42 or something, Arthur had thrust it into his hand and declared that he can give it back when he's home safely. _

_Alfred decided he'd only be 'home safely' at the end of the whole thing- at the end of the whole war._

_Alfred sighs and sniffs, kisses it with closed eyes and high concentration, then carefully- he doesn't want to lose it- sticks it back into his pocket._

_A whistle sounds and the front of the boot is quickly opened._

_The first rushed, metallic clang appears when the first bullets hit the men at the front._

_There's an explosion in front of Alfred and he's temporally blinded, his ears are ringing and his heart is pounding so hard he thinks he's going to die. Alfred ducks behind someone's numb body, and the fire of bullets does not cease._

_Machine guns._

_Well, they've planned for this._

_Alfred was ready._

_And at the same time, he's never been this unsure of anything in his entire life._

_Alfred swallows and all he can do is push to the side, grabbing a frozen young soldier with him, and he's shouting something to him that he doesn't understand himself._

_His heavy gear pushed him down in the water and he can't breathe, he hears some bullets shooting through the water- Where did they even come from? Alfred is staggered backwards by the weight of his uniform and pack, and his eyes are firmly shut, legs kicking somewhere. He uses his strength- thank god he has some- and moves forward. Every time his head emerges from the water, the drag of the machine gun fire fills his ears again. The waves crash into his face, his entire body feels too heavy. He falls forward as soon as his boots touch the sand, and all he can hear is the pained shouting of men left and right of him, and the machine gun fire still ringing ahead of him. _

_There's a body next to him, and Alfred stares with widened eyes, only to be forced back into reality with the pain of a bullet hitting his shoulder. He winces, drags his shoulder back, and reaches for his rifle because what else is there to do? Using his other arm, the working one, he reels himself up with the help of one of the many metal obstacles- Oh, the irony! For the second time today, he feels a mix of nervous laughter boiling up from inside him combined with the strong urge for survival. _

_He walks forward through the water, limping a little, through the water, and his rifle is securely placed in his arms. A grenade explodes in front of him, sending dark sand and dust into the air, and he holds onto his helmet with a stubborn move forward, he's running now, because he must, they must, succeed in this. _

_The heroes always win._

_Alfred kneels and staggers a little from the machine gun fire, a bullet brushes his thigh and he can't hear anything anymore, his ears are numb. All he can do it lie there, on the sand, staring to the left as a flock of men hide behind the metal obstacle. One of them is shaking, with his knees drawn up to his chest, and is shielding his eyes with his arms. Is he crying? Probably. Alfred feels like crying, too._

_But he doesn't._

_He stays numb._

_There're explosions and limbs and bodies all over the place and he's got blood in his face, he knows it, but he doesn't move. There's a boat on fire and men on fire and he doesn't move. He stares. He breaths. He doesn't move._

_He doesn't move._

_He doesn't move._

_He doesn't move- He doesn't move- He doesn't move- _

"_What the hell do we do now," A young soldier asks, "Sir?" He adds for respect._

_Alfred gapes and shouts something, but he can't even hear himself over the ringing in his ears. The men all flock together, following his orders and the orders from the other commanders._

_Alfred looks down to a soldier, shot in the leg, and doesn't think, just does- _

_He grabs him by one of his straps and drags him forwards with him. At the force of yet another explosion he falls down, bracing his head, and his whole body stings, he's unsure whether he's been hit or not, but what does it matter when the man he's been dragging lost both of his legs and is repeatedly shouting "Mama! Mama! Mama!". The next time Alfred looks back at him he's dead, and Alfred gives him a lasting stare, then releases him, stands up, and runs ahead, purely for the sake of not knowing what else to do at this point. Alfred's ears are ringing, his eyes are burning, his body aches and he has a strong pulse of survival, and all he can think about is his men dying and the sheer fact that the heroes always win._

_The heroes always win._

_He shouts "Move!" loudly, and firmly grabs his rifle, and does not stop running forward until he reaches the slightly elevated sand bank. Some of his men are next to him._

_Shouting ensures and he doesn't even remember what everyone says, not when there's a medic in front of him who's face reminds him so much of Arthur it pains him. Maybe it's the eyebrows, or the look of sheer intense concentration on the make-do surgeons face. Probably both. And the fact that the medic keeps on saying to the man "You're not gonna die, you're not gonna die, don't look at it,", Arthur would do that do, even though the man is screaming out in pain and his hands are covered in red blood._

_Alfred doesn't move. _

_He stares._

_And, for the first time today, he exhales and breathes._

_The man the medic had been operating on gets shot in the head. The medic shouts and screams. Then he gets shot in the chest and falls backwards. Alfred's eyes follow the movement._

_Alfred's ears are numb. _

_He doesn't move._

_Someone commands to ready their weapons and ammo. _

_Alfred taps the ammunition pack three times on his helmet and then loads his rifle, looking forward, he doesn't even need to pay attention anymore, he can do this in his sleep._

"_Fire in the hole!" _

_There's a loud explosion in front of him, and black dust is sweep everywhere._

_Alfred crawls forward._

_He gets on his feet._

_He runs._

_There's a block of concrete, and Alfred and some other men hide behind it. The man next to him crucifies himself, and Alfred takes this chance to pull out that damn handkerchief. He stares at it. He closes his eyes and holds it to his lips._

_Alfred runs forward again, up the elevated rocky path to where the Germans kept their guys doing the machine gun work. Alfred kneels on the floor and decides to do what he's gotta do. _

_He takes his rifle and closes one eye, shifting a little, and sighing, before fixing his glance on the figure and pulling the trigger. He thinks of his brother, and Francis, and Arthur._

_He doesn't miss._

_The man falls backwards. _

_He's dead. Alfred smirks a little._

_The second time he pulls the trigger he aims for the barrier of sand bags, right in the middle, so that the enemy falls and lands directly in front of the other men, who promptly stand up and fire away at them._

_Quick movements and chaos ensure, and the men gradually move forwards._

_It's quieter at the top of the rocky path, Alfred discovers, clinging to the group of remaining men under his command which followed him, and he flings a grenade towards the bunker-like hide out of the Germans. A few scramble out, and-_

_Alfred gets shot-_

_Right in the heart-_

_He can't breathe, he's bleeding, someone next to him shouts something, a man is grabbing him by his shoulders but he slips down on his knees and eventually his back. His eyes are wide and he's staring up at the sky-_

_Arthur._

_Francis._

_Matthew._

_Oh God._

_He can't move, he doesn't move._

_He doesn't breathe._

_The heroes always win._

_He has to- He's got to-_

It's not happening.

Alfred panted and tore open his eyes, and forcefully sat up. His blanket fell down to his hips, and his hands were shaking.

He wasn't there, he was in bed, in _his_ bed, in the 21st Century.

He swallowed loudly. His eyes were damp. He had been crying.

He wondered whether he screamed in his sleep.

Something stirred next to him, and a hand with elegant fingers attached to a slender palm and oddly muscular arm pushed against his chest. A body arose from underneath the covers, and Alfred stared at it in fear, and was relieved and so damn happy to see it was Arthur.

A stray tear fell from Alfred's eyes.

Arthur sat up and stared him in silence as Alfred continued to cry and sniffle. As a response, Arthur stared intensely, and his eyes seemed to glint slightly and the curve of his body in Alfred's far too large t-shirt was beautiful in a way that was rarely seen in men. Arthur raised his hand and brushed his palm against Alfred's cheek, and Alfred held his breath, bit his lip, and exhaled shakily.

"You shouted in your sleep," Arthur started, and Alfred expected more, but instead, Arthur brushed a hand through his hair and massaged it in a way that was far too comforting.

"Y-Yeah." Alfred managed to croak out. He reached out and held Arthur's hand, only a little possessively. They stayed like that for a while, and Alfred was surprised how quickly he had calmed down. He had nightmares pretty much for most of his war-spent life, first the revolution, then the civil war, later the first and second world war, the Vietnam war- Damn.

"Was- Was it Iraq? Or..." Arthur finally asked, trailing off, oddly shy. Maybe he was trying to be gentle.

"No. D-Day." Alfred mumbled, eyes fixed on his hand fiddling with Arthur's own.

"Ah." Arthur replied, and silence ensured again.

"You know... Remember that handkerchief? During the war?" Alfred began, voice hushed.

"Yes." Arthur whispered. It was oddly private and raw.

"I think D-Day succeeded because of that. Of you."

"A horrid and stained handkerchief is responsible for the success of a highly planned military invasion, and for the defeat of the Nazis in Europe?" Arthur asked with a hint of amusement.

Alfred smiled shyly and slowly.

_If you watch the 'Saving Private Ryan' invasion scene it makes more sense._

_Damn._


End file.
